Leaves Turn to Snow

So I had to write a “lyric” based on this weeks Object Writing. I chose to write about the “leaves” & “snow” & “counter” 🙂


The clock winds counter inside my head,
I let my thoughts wander, they are not lead.
Away from reality at this time they go,
To seasons of fall, which leads into snow.

Trees engulfed in fire,
Flames of color bursting from the trunk;
Swallowing each branch
Bright yellow, orange, red,
Brown on the ground, crunchy & dead.
The smell of football & burning leaves in the air,
Tailgating & the Grove make a good pair.
Go Rebs, HOTTY TODDY, & WHO DAT Nation,
Autumn leads into winter, and vacation.
Vaca means Colorado & snowboarding for days,
I wish I could live that life forever and always.
Snow, glittery, fluffy, white,
Nothing but Aspens in plain sight.

The clock winds counter inside my head,
I let my thoughts wander, they are not lead.
To boys of my past, my mind now wanders,
There it remains, & about them it ponders.

One for every letter of the alphabet, no 3 maybe 4,
Who cares to count score, it’s not over I’m still racking up more.
I hate them all, yet forget them I can’t,
They make me feel tiny, like a little sugar ant.
Circling a dead object are the vultures in my head,
But my memory keeps growing, keeping the birds fed.
Why they affect me so, I guess I’ll never know,
I wish the thoughts would go, can’t get rid of them though.

The clock winds counter inside my head,
I let my thoughts wander, they are not lead.
Where to next? Who knows where the wind blows,
Amazingly it never ceases, it never even slows.
The clock winds counter inside my head,
I let my thoughts wander, they are not lead.


Friday’s Object Writing

I am very displeased with my writing today! I had a lot of trouble connecting to the “objects” at hand. As it were… Bicycle-5min, bracelet-10min, stockings-10min, puppy-90sec


Bicycle. Cold, hard metal. Round rubber tires. Riding my mountain bike through the grass as a kid. Riding everywhere on any terrain. In my bathing suit, hoping my towel didn’t get caught in the spokes. The smell of fresh cut grass in the summer air. I run through the sprinkler at my memaw and papaws house. Watermelons floating in the pool on the fourth of July. Riding my bike down the beach over little patches of sand blown up on the street. Past the big park with the playgrounds. Skip to my college years. Riding a bike to school on the snow covered streets of Salzburg, Austria. I skid out and fall. Not injured, just embarrassed. Vowing never to ride a bike again, claiming it hurts my bum. I do ride bikes, just rarely, and on a simple path! Times change, things aren’t so easy as an adult as they were in childhood

Bracelet, woven, made with love. Ever color of the rainbow, stacked up my arms. Made by my friends. Never to be taken off, only when they fall off can they be removed, lest I hurt someone’s feelings. Different patterns all strung together. Colors picked thoughtfully, made by hand. Bracelets of metal, stackable, that jingle as you wiggle your arm. Raising your hand to push the hair out of your face. Insisting they match perfectly with your earrings, rings, & outfit. Designer bracelets, David Yurman, Pandora, Catherine Popesco. The bracelets that cling, must match the ring. Bling that rhymes. Bracelets also from childhood, friendships made at camp. The arts & crafts shack. Making candles. Finally able to sign our name on the craft shack our last year as campers before becoming counselors. The ropes course was always my favorite! Bringing me back to ropes, thread, string, tied round the wrist, quintuple knotted together for dear life! Over under through the loop. Twisted together, color swirls, boxed, braided, knotted. safety pins through the loop or knot to attach to any near surface. The back of a chair, a pillow, whatever is near to continue working tirelessly on this piece of unique art for your extraordinarily beloved friend!

Stockings, pink, with a line up the back. Ballerina’s wear soft pink, as if gently kissed by the blush of a light pink rose. Tap dancers wear black fishnet, with rhinestones. Jazz dancers wear nude with a small hole at the bottom to poke the foot through when so desired. Often this is done and they are rolled up the calf, just below the knee. Dancing barefoot. Toughening your feet, developing calluses. Gymnasts/tumblers wear nude with the stirrup feet. Old ladies wear knee highs with garters. Much thinner are these “panty hose” than those “tights” dancers sport. Stockings hung by the chimney with care. They look more like giant crew socks, stuffed with candy & teddy bears when you wake up Christmas morning. The fire crackling and popping in the fireplace below. Reading books by the fire. A fancy Christmas meal. Colored dominos and puzzle time with the family. Never realized how many types of stockings there are. Other words with stock, livestock, stock market… Body stockings, another thing dancers can wear. They come all the way up under the leotard and have shoulder straps so as not to create a waistline, although these are awfully uncomfortable! No one even wears tights anymore except ballerinas. Blanking now, mind drifting. Time is running out… in life. Every minute closer to our last breath than before!

Puppy, cute & cuddly with puppy breath. Barks so weak! Jumps on top of you licking your face incessantly. Potty training is so not fun! Play fetch in the yard, bark at everything that catches attention

Thursday’s Object Writing

Today’s Object Writing. Toast-5min, Leaves-10min, Rice-10min, Work Bench-90sec


Mmmmmm toast! Slathered in butter & sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Toasted to perfection. Golden brown. Still warm. I cut off the crust so it sits in a perfect square. I take a little nibble to test the temperature. Not too hot, so I chomp down on it. Leaving a perfect bite mark in my square. Like a shark might take out of a surfboard. As I continue to eat I breathe in the sweet aroma with hints of cinnamon. I wash it down with a glass of chocolate milk. An odd combination sure, but what else is new. When I’m done I wrap up the crust in my napkin and throw it away.

Leaves, crunchy, brown on the ground. Yet lighting the trees on fire! Bright yellow, orange, red! Flames of color bursting from the trunk. Swallowing each branch. Cool crisp morning air. Breathing out little puffs of smoke with each exhale as you jog down the road. With each step, the pads of your feet colliding with the cold, hard pavement. Making a light clopping noise. Breathing in the smell of burning leaves in the distance. Oddly satisfying. Feeling your heart pounding in your chest, which feels tight and restrictive, limiting your oxygen intake. Relaxing your brain, which takes in your surroundings. Nature, hearing the birds chirp in the trees. Taking a quick break to rest on an available stump. Staring up at at the blue, cloudless sky. Then back at the fire trees. Thinking how trees on the coast are never this color, remaining ever green. Back to reality your mind floats. You stand up to finish your jog home, shower, & head to the tailgate then football game where you forget all about the burning foliage. But yet the memory is all too easy to recover in times of need. Peaceful & serene

Rice, the staple of many cultures’ diet. Tiny grains sown from the earth. Expanding as they absorb water. Hard to soft, soaking up the aqueous solution. They take on flavor quite nicely. But left alone, remain fairly bland. No longer aloud to be thrown at weddings as it serves as a desiccant. Dried out and thin, expanding in the birds’ stomach fluids. However, the desiccant property is useful when technology has gotten wet on accident, as it can absorb the liquid, and restore the object to proper working order. Brown rice, white rice, yellow rice… Like people, it comes in many different packages, yet all still the same, none better than the other. Just different. One typically preferred above the others, ranked in order of favorites. I hate favoritism. In humans it creates feelings of entitlement. This is stupid. Again, all are the same none better than the other, just different. But we are talking about rice, it has no feelings. Put it in different environments & it will acclimate.

Work Bench… Not too familiar with this particular object as I have always worked in an office setting with a nice comfy desk chair. I suppose it supplies rest for those who do manual labor. Physically active all day. Working with their hands. Greasy. Useful.

Wednesday’s Object Writing (on time)

So the same exercise again for today… Rainstorm-5min, Counter-10min, Cape-10min, Snow-90sec

Rainstorm on a hot summer day. Cooling it off, the gray clouds in the sky. Dark, ominous. Steam creeping off the pavements, without any noise. Just floating up in a mist. The thunder roars as the lightening lights up the sky. During the storm, the lightening in streaks like trees. The thin line is the trunk, branching out in all directions. & the trees it strikes, as they are the tallest objects. Splitting & burning them with fire! After the storm, silent heat lightening lights the clouds as if a light was switched on behind them.

The counter, Venetian Granite. A sandy color with light & dark flecks sprinkled throughout. Cold, hard. Covered in papers, bills, my cat. A resting place for all things without a designated space. A double sink cut within, filled with dishes. Counters in the bathroom, still venetian white, but here covered in makeup, hair supplies, toothbrushes, & so on. Easy to clean, when you can get to the surface. But counter also means backwards, a clock, time, moving in the wrong direction. Living life in rewind. The opportunity to change all mistakes. But would you? You wouldn’t be who you are if you did. The opposite to one thing. Never food on the counter where it is meant to be, only objects misplaced without a home. Never eat there, rather on the couch. Baking cookies at my parents’ house, laying them out on the counter to ice with our homemade icing. Rolling my sweet, delicious, made from scratch red velvet cinnamon rolls with cream cheese cinnamon icing that take two days to make because you have to let the dough rise. Mixing it in a large green bowl. Rolling it out on the counter with a rolling pin that sticks. Flour is key, but it doesn’t always work. Slathered soon in butter, sugar, & cinnamon before rolled into the oven & baked to perfection.

Cape, not just what magicians & superheroes wear. Also the name of many iconic coastal based cities. Typically on a peninsula. With capes worn around the neck I think first of red, like Quailman. Then of sparkly glittery capes of magicians in top hats, which leads to the magical Herr Drosselmeyer. Making overgrown dolls come to life for the children. Bringing them joy & other gifts, for Clara her precious Nutcracker. I also think of the old fashioned vampires with pale glowing skin, black hair to match their capes with popped collars, red blood trickling down their chin. Back to red we go. Capes on superheroes. A cape is for looks, sure, a special effect, but it can also strangle or get caught on something. Cheesy animated movies with characters that get sucked into plane propellers because of their cape. Back to propellers. Everything is connected, not just in writing, but in life. We are all connected in the “great circle of life.” The planets, the galaxies, all the stars in the universe. All connected by dark matter. Nothing is ever truly alone.

(Snow) My favorite environmental element! So fluffy as it breaks your fall. Allowing tiny snowflakes to scatter themselves about your limp body laying deep in the hole where you jumped into the snow. Snow angels are fun to make!

Tuesday’s Object Writing


So similar to my first object writing exercise (& those for the upcoming days), My first topic, “Curtain” I had 5 minutes  to write on. I got 10 minutes for “Breeze” & “Canyon” each. & I got 90 seconds to write about “Propeller.”


Curtain, silky white & smooth. Long, draping across the top of the window hanging to the ground, where it sits in a puddle. The wrinkles in the fabric, the ripples on a lake. White, but not like the winter snow, no. A softer white maybe ivory even. My black cat sits perched, a contrast to the white. Periwinkle walls. Protection from the outside world, the snoopers, the sunlight. All privacy thieves. Dark at night

Breeze, gently blowing. A dandelion in the wind. It unspools. Tiny specs floating about, what if “Who’s” really did exist? The breeze creates tiny waves, soft sprays of ocean float through the air to gently kiss your face. You taste the salt water. You remember your mother coating you in sunscreen as a child. The bare bottomed baby on the bottle. The breeze, too strong for the tiny birds wings, blown about, all the while fluttering, wondering where it will take him. The breeze blows lightly as you walk through the rain, it’s just a drizzle, but once more blowing tiny raindrops in your face, only this time it isn’t salt water. Nowhere near an ocean now, surrounded by the foggy morning air punctured only by sitka spruce trees in cold wet Washington state. The dandelion has travelled far and wide to get to the other side. From the shores of the Atlantic to the shores of the Pacific spreading seed

Canyon, deep, dark & eerie. What lies beneath these feet. So far down there. Ride a donkey down, packs on it’s back. Bottles of water to cool you down. Stay hydrated on the trek. There’s no water until you reach the river at the bottom. Dirty green water that winds and bends it’s way along the length of the crevice between the cliffs. Eroding the walls down even more. Ever so gradually. Not even noticeable. The walls reddish brown. Like rusted iron. Not made of clay though. The floor of the basin the same color. The color complimentary to the dirty green water. Crossing the color wheel, the full spectrum. Looking up, the primary color blue. Cyan-not like the pepper powder, which is spelled cayenne. Like deep in the ocean, the mind untangles. Unravelling it’s power, lost. Relaxed

Propeller, spinning, round & round. It goes down beneath the ocean or high into the sky. Don’t get to close because slice & dice you it will! Even sitting still. Dangerous to all, but put to good use

1st Day of Object Writing

So I started a new writing class & the first thing we are doing is object writing. I had to write on “Feather” for 5 minutes “Roses” & “Wrench” for 10 minutes each, & “Balloon” for 90 seconds. This is what I came up with:


Feather. Light & fluffy. Soft & sweet. I hear the bird chirping tweet tweet tweet. Does the bird know it’s lost it’s feather? The feather takes flight drawing with it the animal it is attached to. The feather, gray, & cold. Dead it is. The feather curved and smooth like the edge of the earth. The horizon it flies towards. Floating in the air. Lifeless, but yet alive in so many ways. Found on the ground lying alone. Drying from it’s separation. Separating. Losing itself
Roses. Colorful. All in a row. From a bush they grow. Yellow, Red, pink, white. Even the black one in plain sight. But what do they mean, these colors? They smell so fresh. I’d like to pick one. Place it behind my ear to hold back my hair. Pretty they grow alive and untouched. But if touched they die, turning brown. Shriveling up. Drying out. No longer a part of the circle of life. Thorns so prickly I am scared to touch them. I fear the pain & I don’t want to bleed. But when cut right, beheld with beauty. They hold life inside. Not just the plant. Tiny bugs they crawl inside this magnificent bud they probably conceive as the world. Earth as it is alive also. A tiny bud in this vast universe. Soon it will die because touched it has been, by grimy hands. Picked clean of the last living things. The rose colors are the different planets the bush the Milky Way. Does the rose know it will die? Do plants feel life? Do they see the future? A marvelous home for small critters to rome.

A wrench in my toolbox. Hard made of metal. Lifeless yet strong. Stronger than my bones, which are fragile, they break. The metal feels cold and stiff, clearly not a living thing. No feelings. Just atoms strung together. Covalent bonds formed. Take life it can in it’s firm grasp. Wrapped hands around a bolt. Twisting turning, pulling things tighter, or taking them apart. Rusty and jagged or fresh & smooth. Covered in oil in the master mechanics hands. Useless in mine. Creations it makes. Or destroy things it might. Silver not gold, new is better than old. Thud it makes as it clanks to the ground. Landing on toes. Smashing them into the ground, ouch! Dangerous to the child in whose hands it fits not. Crushing objects. Useful it is, when handled by the right person. I see my reflection in it’s handle. it turns

Balloon, red with a long string attached. It flies so high so light & free. I wish it could take me. Soaring into the sky. Higher than birds, like a plane. I hear the pop as it gets too close to the sun like Icarus. Pieces float softly to the ground. Red dead.


The Spark Inside

One day, whether you

are 14,


or 65

you will stumble upon

someone who will start

a fire in you that cannot die.

However, the saddest,

most awful truth you will

ever come to find—

is they are not always

with whom we spend our lives.

-Beau Taplin

This quote could not be more accurate to my life right now! This week has been both the best week of my life & the worst week of my life wrapped into one, all due to one person. Here are just a few of my own personal sentiments for how I feel about it…

You’re in my  heart, you’re on my mind,

maybe that could be a sign.

Not that thing, you took to be,

when you left me.

That was a false alarm,

brought on by too much fire.

We pushed too hard, we rushed too soon,

should’ve let things happen naturally.

We made mistakes, but I wish you could see,

that doesn’t mean we weren’t meant to be.

Those gut feelings, that first glance,

I wish you would give us a real chance.

Those feelings are true, what I meant to you

baby don’t push them away.

You say you don’t deserve happiness,

but no one is meant to be alone.

I hope this phase comes to pass,

I wish you’d pick up the phone.

You swore you’d fight for me, 

now baby let me fight for you!

~Kimily Trehern